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At her side, the old sailor turned his head. “Eh?”
She gestured to the city streets winding up the hill. Already Lemarta clamored with noise. “I hear Doma Martia has just received a few good barrels of Tyri red.”
“Seems a bit early for sampling Martia’s wine,” Kastio replied. “Even for me.”
The coin was cold in her hand, winking silver between her fingers. Enough to buy many strong glasses. Corayne held the penny out to her guardian.
“You must tell me how it is.”
Kastio glared at the money but put out his hand all the same. “This is a bribe.”
She smiled weakly. “Just a few hours, please. I need to be alone.”
Once, the old man had been an officer in the Siscarian navy, an oarsman before that, and a ship’s boy long ago, though Corayne could hardly picture him without gray hair and wrinkles. She remembered his stories. Great battles on the sea, the wars with Galland and Tyriot. How bright the stars seemed in the middle of the water. How endless the world felt when the land fell away. All things she wanted and more.
He studied her for a long moment, enough to make Corayne nervous. No matter how old or drunk he might be, Kastio was no fool. He was charged to guard her for a reason.
“She was wrong not to take you, Corrie,” he murmured, giving her shoulder a squeeze.
Corayne only stared as he walked off with his toddling gait. She tracked him through the blossoming crowd at the dock edge, then winding his way up to the Sea Queen and Martia’s wine cellar. Only when he disappeared around a corner did she exhale, surveying the port.
No ship that will take me, no captain who will cross my mule-stubbornmother.The dock planks passed beneath her feet, echoing with heavy footsteps. The cloak felt heavy around her shoulders, far out of season. Perfect for travel.
She leaves me no choice but one.
The wood planks turned to stone as she stepped off the docks onto the long plaza lining the wharf. Corayne raised her eyes to search, scanning the familiar faces of Lemarta as they went about their lives. Her heartbeat rose in her chest, beating a wild rhythm.
Corayne an-Amarat liked plans. And her first had sailed away without so much as a backward glance. Luckily, she had another.
The sudden voice at her ear was lovely, a soft hiss.
“Three days,” a woman whispered.
Corayne did not flinch, turning to face Sorasa Sarn. Behind her, in a shadowed alcove at the edge of the square, she caught a flash of gold and green.
“Three days,” Corayne replied.
The assassin was not hooded today. For the first time, Corayne looked on her fully. She ran her eyes over Sorasa’s lean frame, agile even beneath her light, sand-colored cloak. The Amhara could not be older than thirty, with jet-black hair and skin like glowing topaz, golden and rich. Though she was clothed from neck to wrist, Corayne noted the tattoos she could see—the lines on her fingers, the snake behind her ear, the unmistakable wing of an eagle and sting of a scorpion peeking out at her neck. Each was an artistry, a masterwork of ink, a testament to her skill and her Amhara training. They drew her eye more than Sorasa’s dagger or sword.
Sorasa sniffed. “There’ll be time for examination later, Spindlerot. We don’t want to keep the immortal annoyance waiting, do we?” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. In the alcove, Dom shifted his broad form.
“Certainly not,” Corayne said. “Are you going to call me Spindlerot the entire time or just today?”
“I’m still deciding.”
The assassin set a sharp pace across the square, and Corayne followed neatly on her heels. She tried to keep her steps even, to walk instead of run. Still her heart thrummed, with both nerves and joy.Kastio will know I ran. Mother will be away for months. And even if she learns I’m gone, she’ll never turn back. Not for me.
“It’s good she left you behind,” Sorasa murmured, taking her by surprise. “You’re better off this way.”
A jolt went through Corayne. “Why’s that?”
“Rhashiran civil wars are boring,” Sorasa drawled.
Corayne blanched, following her into the shadowed corners of the market.
The darkness did little to hide how out of place Dom looked in sunny, bronzed Siscaria. He bowed low, sweeping back his green cloak embroidered with antlers. The sword at his hip looked even more foolish than he did. Too big, too cumbersome, nothing like the light sabers or knives most sailors favored.
“My lady Corayne,” he said. She pulled a face. “My apologies,” he added quickly.
